Well, they are back. Uniforms are all beautifully sewn with name-tags and books covered and labelled; bus passes have been organised; life is mapped out for the next three months. But can I relax? No. For no sooner are they settled into the school year than the dreaded letters start coming. Oh God, how I hate them. No matter how many confidence-building or assertiveness-training courses I do, I am reduced to the status of a mouse at the sight of those buff-coloured envelopes. Why, oh why do I feel that any criticism of my offspring is a criticism of me? And why can I not accept the (albeit occasional) praise from a teacher for my child? "Deep-rooted insecurity," sighs the eldest, who is studying psychology.

Nowadays, with computers in schools, the efficiency and speed with which these letters come is awesome. And the trouble is that some of them are for routine matters and are not necessarily to complain. I become so troubled by the sight of them that often they go unopened, often to the detriment of us all. Mind you, if you knew the family history you would understand my mounting anxiety. Three years ago my entire summer was ruined by the arrival of one of those envelopes in late June. It suggested that, as Darragh was so uninterested in school, he might look at some alternatives for filling his days for the following year. I couldn't get hold of any teacher or administrator to elaborate on the suggestion until the last week in August. And when I did, everything was hunky-dory and Darragh was welcome to return. I was a bit smart after that - "been there, done that". As number three child came up I nonchalantly tossed the letters aside. Confession never changes, I insisted, as Aoife struggled to find the letter about it all on the noticeboard. As on the last two occasions, I lined up the godparents, grandparents and brothers and we all trooped into the church and took our places in the pew. When I looked around, the other children only seemed to have one parent with them. "They will think we are members of Family Solidarity," my husband whispered, as we looked around to see whether we should be sitting, kneeling or standing up. There had been a change of policy that year - it was all explained in the letter I had left unopened.

So as the first letter of the year plopped on to the mat, I reluctantly opened it. It invited me to join a fundraising committee - and my first job would be to organise the flag day.

It's great fun being a mammy.